Whiskey is confession without kindness.
Sometimes whiskey
Does the talking
It’s velvet heat
And brutal honesty
A razor can’t be anything but
No innuendo, it just cuts
Through pretty pink flesh
Straight to the braille
Etched on the soul
A black night liturgy
An obituary
To a poet who never was
Clarity lives on battlefields
And in moments
No one thought mattered
And the bottle
It’s too damn small
To hold me
5 responses to “Liturgy”
Beautiful words 😩
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Thank you. I always appreciate that anyone even ends up reading them, and it’s particularly kind of you to take the time to comment.
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Hey we are lucky that you share your talents with us!
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This feels like truth without anesthesia. The way you let whiskey become both confessor and weapon, no romance, no performance, just the cut straight to what’s written underneath. That last line wrecked me. Not bravado, not despair, just a body too vast for the vessel it’s been handed. There’s a hard-earned clarity here, the kind that only shows up after something has burned. This stays with you
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Thank you – and yes, I’d say hard earned might be the right ballpark. Maybe a few fires as well. Thank you for your thoughtful take.
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